Long I have scavenged the seaside
for that one pearly, pink cone.
They say a conch can sing.
I have half-heard the whispering
crabs scuttling back and forth,
the thousand voices of seaweed
rubbing sand, the distant screams
of joy, of whale or dolphin.
Then, the sharp, clear call
of my mother "come in, come in"
and I do.